


the soft animal of your body

by throats



Series: mics are for singing not swinging [5]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Single Parents, Trans Male Character, Trans Parent Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15890799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/pseuds/throats
Summary: scott is stressed out before a protest; logan tries to help him relax.





	the soft animal of your body

**Author's Note:**

> wrote most of this on a whim, thanks to a discord conversation about x-men ships bein' gay & doing crimes. 
> 
> this fits in to mic verse (which is a defenders band au that you can read more about [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/823860)), and while reading the other fics in the series isn't necessary to understand this fic, new readers may need a dramatis personae for non x-characters:
> 
> dave—"spacker dave" from garth ennis' marvel knights punisher, lives at/runs the safehouse (a diy punk venue)  
> joan— from garth ennis' marvel knights punisher, lives in frank's building and grows her own herb  
> micro—"microchip" from garth ennis' punisher max, in leatherneck with frank castle
> 
> content warnings for: marijuana, anxiety disorder 
> 
> thanks to [moonheist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist) and [monsterjournalism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterjournalism/pseuds/monsterjournalism) for the beta work & enjoy!

_You do not have to be good._  
_You do not have to walk on your knees_  
_for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting._  
_You only have to let the soft animal of your body_  
_love what it loves._ – Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"

 

Scott is going to pace a hole into Logan’s floor. Not necessarily because he’s pacing in any sort of aggressive manner, but rather that Logan’s floor has been looking for an excuse to give up the ghost and an anxious Summers is exactly the kind of license it would take to finally give way.

“Scott.” He knocks the top off of his beer on the counter. The sound startles Summers, who hazards a look in Logan’s direction. _Fucking finally._ “Wanna tell me what the hell it is you’re thinking?”

The light above Logan and Laura’s stove gives off an orange glow. It catches the red in Scott’s hair; the red in the lenses of the glasses he has gripped in his fist. Scott’s eyes are tight, tension gathered in his face around the bridge of his nose. Logan’s thumb swipes away the sweat on bottle in his hand; tucks the urge to wipe away the lines in Scott’s face with the motion.

For a moment, Logan thinks Scott had forgotten he was there.

Scott sighs. “I’m triple-counting the number of buckets we have to see if they match the number of drumsticks Dave and Micro have at The Safehouse.”

 _Right, of course._ Logan chuckles; shakes his head as he takes a swig of beer. “You memorized your count?”

Scott’s face folds again; his jaw snaps shut. For a moment, his annoyance seems so loud Logan’s afraid he’ll wake Daken – the little shit had only gone to bed an hour ago, three hours later than his bedtime of 7:30, but that was always going to be a losing fucking battle – but then Scott’s face softens. Apparently remembering Logan isn’t actually making fun of him.

“C’mon Slim,” Logan says. He turns back to the fridge; half-empty condiments rattle against the door and Logan freezes as he hears Daken turn over in bed across the hall. Waits for confirmation his son is still asleep before pulling out another bottle of beer, uses the bottle opener on the counter and holds it out for him. “Head over early and quadruple check then. Can’t do anything about it now.”

Still frowning, Scott takes the beer from Logan. He watches as Scott’s frown shifts a little, the weight of his expression moving inward from the downturned corners of his mouth and into the bow of his lower lip. A pout, now. One he hides by taking a drink. “I guess you’re right.”

Logan chuckles, arching one eyebrow. “Guess?” he echoes, smirking around the neck of his own beer as he takes another sip. “You know for a fact that Quire would try to kick our asses for interruptin’ their beauty sleep if we went over now. _And_ you know how embarassin’ it’d be for ‘em to get their ass handed to them on a show night.”

Leatherneck and The New Mutants are holding a show to build up hype for the rally tomorrow; normally Logan would be there himself, but Laura hadn’t been able to watch Daken, so he’d signed on to help Scott with some last minute logistics.

Of course, the fact that Logan’s been carrying a torch for Scott for the last year, ever since he’d started showing up to Jean’s monthly Food Not Bombs meetings, has nothing to do with his offer to help. Nothing at all.

(Honestly. Logan’s been trying to keep his distance, because it’d been obvious from that first meeting that Scott and Jean were _those_ exes. The kind that still dote on each other, the ones that are stuck together like glue; supposedly friends. And, sure, he’s known Jeanie for a while, three years, maybe four – they blur together if he’s being honest – so he should trust her when she says they’re friends, but.

But trust is hard. Logan can count on one hand the people he’s trusted in the last nine years. Two fingers, really. And one of them ain’t even his own kid – Daken stuck gum in his hair literally last week.)

Scott snorts into his beer. “Okay, you’re right,” he says – not looking at Logan’s face. His attention is zeroed in on a piece of macaroni art Daken made at school. Logan and Laura can’t figure out what it’s supposed to be. Logan thinks it looks a little bit like a knife. Laura thinks it’s a self-portrait. When his twin had asked Daken, the kid had said it was _abstract art_.

Seriously. Logan didn’t know where he got that kind of vocabulary from, but something in his heart swelled with pride regardless.

“Of course I’m right,” Logan replies. He finishes his beer and sets it gingerly in the sink to wash out in the morning. When he looks back up, Scott’s still studying the delivery menus and Daken’s school art projects that cover the fridge.

Logan sways a little to force Scott’s eyes to meet his. Raises one eyebrow. “You just gonna keep standing there?” He leans up on his tiptoes to pull the box of cigars off the top of the fridge and fishes his zippo out from his back pocket. “I could use a smoke.” Logan jerks his head to the window at the end of the kitchen/living room, the one that opens onto the fire escape.

It takes Scott a moment to find the question in Logan’s words. He blinks, shaking his head. “Uh. Sure.”

Logan glances down at the cigar box in his hands; he’s got a few joints from Joan in Frank’s building. Sneaks a look back up at Scott and decides what the hell. He plucks one of the joints from the box and tucks it behind his ear. Taps his zippo against the lid of the box to close it and stretches up, catlike, to slide the box back on top of the fridge.

“C’mon, Slim,” he says, leading Scott further into his apartment. When he wrenches open the window, the cool fall evening washes over Logan’s skin and he inhales the city – the scent of motor oil, the Hudson and East Rivers, of Yukio cooking _sukiyaki_ in the apartment below his – and swings through the windowsill to sit on the cool metal fire escape.

Scott sits on the window ledge, his narrow shoulders bowed to keep his tall frame perched on the ledge. He frowns as Logan pulls the joint from behind his ear. “I thought you smoked cigars.”

Logan stops up short, his thumb pressed against the seam of his zippo, about to flip it open. “I –” Any sort of snappy retort dries up on his tongue. Has to swallow up the _I didn’t think you noticed_ that nearly jumps out of his throat. Comes up instead with a guff, “Got a problem?”

The back of Scott’s neck goes pink. Logan’s middle heats in reply. He’s cute when he’s flustered.

“Oh! Uh, no,” Scott says, shaking his head.”I just didn’t think you – uh. Partook.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. Curiosity arches its back in his chest, catlike. “You tellin’ me you smoke, Scott?” He gives the joint a little wave in his fingers.

Scott’s frown deepens. His cheeks go pink, which really, shouldn’t be cute considering how much red’s in his hair, Logan should think he looks like a damn lobster, really –

“I. Yeah. I’ve done it a few times.” Scott’s voice is choppy. Each sentence an abortive measure.

Logan smirks. “Uh-huh.”

“Hey,” Scott mutters, “don’t be a dick. I _have_.” He bows his head, propping his elbows onto his knees. “I’ve got a medicinal card. Uh. For my anxiety.”

Logan’s smirk falters. Guilt curls up his spine and he finds himself looking away. “Scott –” he whispers, apology unformed and leaden on his tongue.

“It’s okay,” Scott says, too fast and too loud. He’s chewing his bottom lip ragged and Logan’s stomach twists, all ugly remorse. “I mean,” Scott starts up again, “it’s not like I don’t know how I look.”

He looks over towards Logan. There’s a wry smirk beginning to work its way into the corners of Scott’s mouth, the flush receding, and Logan just wants to throttle whatever primal force that said, _you know what, sure Logan, you can see Scott Summers’ best smile, but only after you’re a huge dick and don’t deserve it_.

“You callin’ yourself a nerd now, bub?”

“And proud.” A flash of teeth with Scott’s grin. “Now are you gonna light that or should I?”

Logan’s grinning before he can even recognize the lift of his own features, the slow shift of his face as it turns up towards Scott. “Quit yappin’ and I’ll light it,” he mutters back, flicking open the zippo with one fluid motion of his wrist.

He takes the first hit and as his lungs fill with smoke, it gets easier to unwind the guilt and tension from his organs. Logan passes the joint to Scott.

Who takes it between two long fingers and pulls the joint up to his mouth. Scott tilts his head up to the skyline as he hollows out his cheeks and takes a long drag. Logan watches; his eyes dragging across the lines of Scott’s face in profile.

Once, he wanted to teach art. A thousand lifetimes ago, when such daydreams seemed possible. He wanted to teach art because he couldn’t draw for shit, but was fascinated by the way art could trap moment and emotion into one place. Scott’s like an Egon Schiele sketch, all fraught and jagged lines. A sharp, gaunt thing.

The end of the joint burns red against the black and gold of the city at night. Logan looks out at the Manhattan skyline across the East River, his gaze filtering Scott into soft lines, pulling him just out of focus. For a moment, all Logan can hear is the low buzz of traffic.

As the smoke from Scott’s exhale begins to flit through the skyline, Logan’s focus slides back towards him. The world reorients itself around Scott Summers.

His shoulders have begun to ease back, looking _unwound_ for the first time in the year Logan’s known him. His eyes are closed, the ever-present lines around them finally _gone_ from his face. Scott’s nostrils flare as he breathes in deep. Logan focuses on the sound.

“Here.” Scott hands him back the joint. Logan accepts it readily, eager for something to do with his hands, to get higher so he can stop feeling so distracted by the pull of heat he feels in his middle when he looks at Scott.

But even as he inhales smoke, his limbs beginning to feel heavy and loose all at once, Scott is distracting. He undoes the top three buttons of his shirt and slips off the windowsill, dropping down onto the fire escape next to Logan. He still faces the building next to them, while Logan leans against the back of the fire escape, looking out the alleyway between his apartment building and the one next door. Logan takes the moment Scott uses to roll up the sleeves of his shirt to take another drag.

“Don’t keep it all to yourself,” Scott murmurs, looking back over at Logan. His glasses sit in the front chest pocket of his shirt, glinting against the lights of the borough around them.

It’s the longest Scott hasn’t worn his glasses around Logan. He wishes he knew what to do with this information.

The weed makes him feel… well. Maybe it’s that the weed makes him _feel_. It shuts up a more rational part of him, the part of him that can’t seem to shut up, can’t seem to let him just. _Be._

So, uninhibited by consciousness, Logan pops the joint back between his lips and smirks. Raises his eyebrows in Scott’s direction. His body feels alert; his blood rushes hot through his limbs.  

Which is when Scott leans over, spreads one hand on the windowsill to steady himself as he crowds up into Logan’s space and catches the lit end of the joint between his teeth. Scott’s breath is hot against Logan’s cheeks. The earthy, damp smell of weed is, for a surreal moment, overpowered by the smell of freshly washed linens. _Scott_.

Scott, who blows back smoke into Logan’s mouth, catching him with complete surprise. Scott, who’s close enough that their noses drag together as he does. Logan barely remembers to exhale.

The weed’s really hitting him now. It feels like every cell in his body is aware. Aware of the cool iron of the fire escape against his back, through his t-shirt. Aware of the small shudders and lurches of the metal as the trains below the ground march to and from Manhattan. Aware of Scott, reaching between them. Of Scott’s elbow brushing against his shoulder, his forearm pressing against Logan’s chest.

Scott takes the joint from Logan’s lips, beginning to pull away, to slip back to his spot an arm’s length away.

Logan’s loose, fuzzy thoughts center on one thing: Scott pulling away is unacceptable. He reacts.

“Hey,” Logan murmurs, the single syllable barely audible on his heavy tongue. He leans forward, catching Scott’s free wrist in his hand. In the quick, sureness of his movements, Logan miscalculates distance and knocks their foreheads together. Hot air rushes out of Scott’s mouth, curling against Logan’s cheek. Scott’s eyes don’t move from Logan’s. There’s a concussive force behind them, trapping Logan in place.

“Where’re you goin’ Slim?” Logan mutters. His mouth moves against the side of Scott’s nose, against his cheek. He shivers against Logan. The heat in Logan’s stomach blossoms, flaring into a blaze.

It’s impossible to tell who shifts first; who gives in. The weed makes Logan’s senses a one trick pony, his entire consciousness focused on the feeling of Scott’s skin against his, every point of contact: his hand wrapped around Scott’s wrist, the flutter of Scott’s pulse under Logan’s fingers; the press of their foreheads together, the tickle of Scott’s hair against Logan’s hairline.

And suddenly: open-mouthed, imprecise kissing. The kind of kissing that says _it’s been a while_ in the same breath as _please_. Flames lick up Logan’s ribcage. Scott’s supple tongue, flitting between Logan’s teeth, finding purchase against the roof of his mouth.

Scott shivers when Logan pulls back some, his tongue scraping against Logan’s teeth as the kiss falls apart.

“Was that okay?” Scott asks, breathless. He’s pale pink, flush creeping up from his chest, exposed in the open collar of his shirt.

And _that’s_ the moment it feels like a dream. Too easy, too perfect. Logan laughs. “Okay?”

Scott’s face twists as Logan’s laughter beats against his cheeks; his expression falls. “Logan…”

 _Oh, no_. Not a dream. “I – shit.” It’s Logan’s turn to flush, anger at himself heating his ears under his hair. “Scott. That’s not what I meant. Christ – yeah, yeah.” He meets Scott’s nervous eyes. “It was more than okay, Scott. C’mere.”

In the low light, Scott’s brown eyes refract back the city. The neon _OPEN_ signs of bodegas, the lights coming down from Manhattan – Freedom Tower, the _New Yorker_ , all of it – catching hints of what Logan knows to be amber hues in the daylight and washing them in a red, red glow.

Where it should make Scott seem dangerous, it turns him vulnerable. Something raw and red; temptation, a question, a dare, all packaged in the lines of Scott’s face. “Logan,” he whispers, suddenly very serious.

Or, well. Actually. Suddenly much more like his sober self.

“You’re sure about this?” Scott’s wrist twists in the Logan’s grasp. His fingertips stroke against the inside of Logan’s forearms. Scott’s eyes flit from Logan’s, down to his lips, and then back up again – surreptitious.

Logan shoves against the gentle lave of Scott’s fingertips. The way his digits move against his skin, so gentle he thinks the touch is unconscious on Scott’s part. He exhales in a rush, the sound laughter-shaped. “You serious?”

Scott’s face folds.

“Woah, woah, woah there Slim,” Logan murmurs. Gives Scott’s wrist a squeeze. He can feel Slim’s pulse skipping under the pads of his fingers and Logan’s body washes with a heady, powerful feeling. He holds Scott’s gaze. His mouth is already starting to redden, the mark of Logan’s teeth in the swell of his lips. Logan’s tongue darts out, brushing against the scrape marks left by Scott’s on his own.

“I’m not askin’ to be a dick, Scott,” he explains. The words are difficult to pull from his chest, even with the weed relaxing his gullet. And yet, Logan presses on. “I’m asking ‘cause it seems too good to be true.”

Scott repines. “Logan –”

Logan silences him with a look. “Listen, Slim. This is important,” he pleads. Feels almost like he should be on his goddamn knees or some shit. “M’not exactly used to getting what I want, alright? I am fucked up with this kind of shit, okay? You gotta give me –”

Suddenly Scott is laughing. _Giggling_ , maybe. A high pitched sound that reaches up from Scott’s throat and into the light pollution. It shocks Logan into silence.

“Will you just listen to _me_?” Scott says, shaking his head. A smile cracks across his face. Teeth grin out at Logan. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to. Now come here and let me do it again.”


End file.
